


The Mockingjays

by oprovau



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, takes place at the beginning of cf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9393752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oprovau/pseuds/oprovau
Summary: "My name is Farah Rueben. I am twenty-three years old. I am from District 8. I am now in the Capitol, because I won the 69th Annual Hunger Games. I am a very good person. I am not a rebel. I am better here. I am better here. I am better here." Junior victors ask me how I stay alive. A mantra is easy. Even if it is a lie. For I am a pawn, but I am strong. I am a very good person who does very bad things. I may be a rebel, but I am just a girl. I am just a girl. I am just a girl.





	

The morning light pierces through my unopened eyes. A wavering white glaze is the only movement in my line of sight.

I imagine that this is death. A large part of my soul says that when I die, this hazy glaze is the only thing I will see for all eternity. When I wake,  I feel  a rush of emotion in those few moments of white light. I am happy, and I am sad, and I am tired. But  slowly , blobs of blackness distort the white light, begging me to see more things and live more days. Shapes dance and dance, as I do on most nights; move from simple gyrations to a timeless waltz. Pure instinct makes me wiggle my toes, or tap an index finger to the imaginary tempo. My own movement awakens me, and the color spectrum rushes forward. It is almost repulsing. I would rather live in a calm, black and white world, than this colorful, yet hectic hell of reality.

One day, the blackness will not obscure the light. I imagine that I will not be able to will my eyes to open and leave this dance. I imagine that, one day, I will be free to join the blobs of black in their ethereal pulsing heaven.

Yet still, today, the colors flood in. I sigh-- I can't believe that I'm not surprised that I am not dead. I have lived much too long.

"Mmm... Farah Roooooo..." There is a man next to me. He moans my name between snores that shake the sheets around my stomach. Through patchy, semi-permanent blue dye, I can make out gray splotches. This imp, name unknown and irrelevant, is ten years my senior,  minimum  .  With the Capitol's extensive skin serums and prosthetic surgeries, though, this man could be in his sixties  . A stick-like and hairy arm throws itself  haphazardly  over my exposed chest.  He 'unconsciously' grasps at my breast and I sit up  slightly  to make the overgrown and chipped-painted fingernails slide off my chest and onto the bed . I've decided that the man is only a decade older than me: 33.

Some mornings, I find that I know exactly how I occupied my time-- and who and where I occupied it with.

Today is different; for through his shaggy grey-and-blue hair, I can smell nonalcoholic breath . Uncommon.

I pull myself out of sticky, rose gold satin sheets. Where I had once laid, there is a girl-shaped pool of sweat, droll, glitter, among other things. I notice an opened bottle of wine by the man's shoulder. I stare at it for much too long before picking it up. I hold the cold bottle in my bony hands and retreat to the bathroom.

I am aching all over. My arms and legs are the limbs of a tree that children too often climb upon. I am like that one, favorite maple tree; my branches  are worn  out, but I am still used and used and refuse to die.

Or at least that is how my brother would describe me.

I turn on the faucet of the grandiose, mini-pool-sized bathtub.  As the clear, fruit-smelling water runs, my fingers work and twist to undo the  eccentrically  designed hairdo upon my head  .  Once the elastics are undone, a billowing and starchy mess falls around my strong shoulders  . I can't help but stare at myself in the mirror as it fogs up. My early morning vision is still dismal, but I can fill in the queries of my countenance.  My hair passes for bottle-blonde, yet brown roots peak through glitter and semen and wine and hairspray and  possibly  tomato sauce  .  These locks  are matted  beyond easy repair and the cakiness of the strands match the cement-like makeup around my eyes and lips  . The fact that  all of  these products have  just  been lingering on my skin for hours is the worst part.

"Farah?"

I hear the blue-haired man brush his arm over my now-empty pillow. I say, "It's time to leave," but my words come out gravelly and creaky. It hurts to speak, like someone has lodged a cheese chip between my vocal chords.  An  uh huh comes from the penthouse's central gathering room, and I assume the 'customer' is preparing to leave; moments later, the slammed door confirms this  .  I release a breath that I was unaware I was keeping; strangers in my home placed me into an even more uncomfortable position than the situation already was  . But it is a position that keeps my family alive. At the end of the day, that's what matters.  I think.

Pedicured toes, which match my yellow-green, anxiety-bitten fingernails, prick the water at the precise time that my best Avox, Fausy, knocks on the  slightly  ajar door  .  I am not any where near ashamed of my body, but Fausy's gaze always seems so condescending and mean-spirited-- I press several buttons to create fast-rising bubbles to shroud my healthy figure.

"Come on in, Faus!" My voice cracks, once more, as the red-haired woman enters the room. My heart aches when I see her ribs through the scarlet shawl she  is forced  to wear.  Two trays teeter between bony, calloused, and shaking hands-- porcelain and ruby-inlaid, the trays that Fausy carries hold enough food to feed a small army, or every starving child in my district  . I squeeze my eyes shut and remember being that starving little child. Crazy how you go from starving to forever full  just  by killing a few people.

My mother would scold me for thinking dark things like that. Changing my appearance and attitude, killing people, having my body ripped away from me...  before she died, these were taboo subjects; she could tell from my pained expressions that I was thinking of something awful . She would yell "Taboo!" and tickle my sides, even until I was well into my teens.

Fausy flicks the side the porcelain tray to get my attention.

My eyelashes and their caked-on mascara stick shut as I open my eyes. "On the counter is fine." I motion to the empty marble around the sink and smile, unbrushed teeth revealed to the Avox. "You're welcome to any of it that you would like, Fausy."

I catch myself, but the words are between us, now. Fausy, as an Avox, has no tongue to taste with. The concept of a meal is void.

In response, the Avox woman shakes her head, and tugs on her crimson sleeves while waiting for further instruction .

The bath has warmed and I mentally and  physically  sink lower into the bubbling porcelain tub. "I'm sorry, Fausy. About what I said, I mean--" I look up at her; my hair, sticky and bubble-covered, frames my face and gets in my eyes. "--I mean...  just  go take a walk or something-- only if you'd like to, though! I'll be out soon."

I try to be cheery, but the flash of red leaves the room. I can't help but feel that I've run her out. She  is kind of  my only friend these days-- even if our conversations are 'yes'- and 'no'-based, only.  Every morning for close to six years, I would wake up, and Fausy would deliver eggs, sausages, and syrup-soaked pancakes  . And  maybe  one day, I'll learn to do it for her.

I sit and soak for another few minutes. My mind was so calm when I woke up, but now I can't seem to force it to calm down.

My hair is sopping wet when I rise from the tub. I take a towel to cover my aching body, and pull a blue hairpick from the drawers. I begin at the bottom and work my way to the top. Or at least I try to. My locks are in such a disarray that I can't force the comb through more than two inches of hair. I've defeated myself; I throw my hair into a bun and wait for my stylists to deal with it.

I can't help but smile when I hear the hum of the viewing screen in the other room. "Morning, Eugenia!" I call out.

Eugenia, my head stylist, calls back a 'good morning'.

I hear the booming voice of Caesar Flickerman ring out around the apartment, always my favorite speaker . Even if he 'loved' the Hunger Games so much. "Is it District 12 again?" I move all the breakfast onto one porcelain tray, and carry it into the adjoining. It's heavy and teetering when held in both of my hands. I have to remind myself that Fausy held a tray in each hand when she arrived this morning.

I exit the bathroom. The overhearty, Capitol-bred laugh of pink-haired Eugenia hums. "Oh, of course it is. And they look so wonderful together! Oh!" The exclamations of the elder woman elicits a rare giggle from my gravelly throat.

"Care for anything?" I mumble, meaning it only as a kind gesture, but Eugenia, plump and happy to remain such, took a piece of toast off of the tray.

"You've met the Star-Crossed Lovers, right, Farah?" Eugenia lands on the couch with a light thud, a violent orange dress pooling around her.

Bacon almost falls out of my mouth when I reply with a 'yeah'. To this conversation, I can only add yeses, nos, and okays.  Eugenia has been  absolutely  taken with the pair from District 12 since their unusual win a few months ago . I spot a light blue sundress on the tussled and unmade bed, along with various undergarments. I begin to change as Eugenia continues on the conversation. It is very one sided as I focus on dressing, and then onto my breakfast.

I make my way across the grand, open living room and take a seat next to my stylist, legs curled beneath me. I offer a smile to Fausy, who takes my dirty clothes and empty trays out of the apartment, emotionless.

"I  absolutely  can not wait for the Victors to come to the Capitol once more!  Oh, Portia has kept me updated with  all of  the insider information about the two lovebirds and it's  simply  marvelous ."

I can only remember the look on Katniss Everdeen's face when Peeta Mellark revealed his love for her. She was angry and petrified. It could have been that her feelings grew for the boy with the bread, but they were not reciprocated from that very first moment, it had seemed; the relationship had felt forced and  clearly  created for sponsors. Then again, the Capitol always loved their classic pair of star-crossed lovers.

I shake my head. "Yeah, they're marvelous."


End file.
